


baby could you blow my heart up

by dangercupcake



Series: Starstruck [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Accidental Baby Acquisition, Bromance to Romance, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, No mpreg, Post-Hockey, Retirement, Softest of Soft Bros, There is a Doggo, family arguments, relationship conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-06
Updated: 2017-07-06
Packaged: 2018-11-28 14:49:53
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11420259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/pseuds/dangercupcake
Summary: “Okay, Mikey, listen,” says Mike. “Whatever is happening in your body, it’s not a baby. Dudes cannot get pregnant. I promise you, whatever Wilson told you is a lie.”





	baby could you blow my heart up

Mike doesn’t count it as “getting home” from Scotland until he’s in the fishing cabin. Which isn’t really a fishing cabin anymore as much as it is just . . . home. When he drives up, there’s a car blocking his garage, and when he pulls his keys out, it doesn’t matter because the door is unlocked, and even though he whistles, Arnold doesn’t come running.

Latts is sleeping on the living room couch, a sleeve of Ritz crackers and a mug on the floor by his head, Arnold tucked comfortably around his legs. Mike would swear to hell and back that Arnold _grins_ at him. That damn dog likes Latts more than Mike does.

Well. Almost as much if Mike is being honest. But more than Mike does if Mike isn’t examining his feelings too closely. Which he’s not doing right now because he’s _too happy_ to see this stupid kid, too happy the kid took him seriously and used the key, too comfortable to come home and see him here, settled in. 

Nope, too many feelings. 

Mike keeps walking, heads for the stairs. He’s going to drop all his luggage, drink a bottle of water, and take a nap. 

His bed is a tangled up mess of sheets and pillows everywhere and it smells like Axe. Mike doesn’t even bother to straighten it out; he strips down, climbs in, pulls the sheets around himself, and breathes deep. For a kid who doesn’t know how to cook, wash dishes, or even wash his own clothes, Latts is fucking dedicated to buying the same kind of body wash and cologne somehow. In his own bedroom, with the shades down and the curtains drawn, it’s safe for Mike to admit that he likes it.

*

Latts is cooking KD and flipping Arnold tiny pieces of hot dogs when Mike makes it downstairs. 

Mike leans against the wall and tucks his fingertips into his armpits and waits until Latts sees him. “Hey.”

“I saw on your Insta you were on your way home,” says Latts. “I hoped that meant here.”

“It only ever means here.”

“LA.” Latts shrugs.

“LA is LA. This is home.” Mike watches him stir the leftover pieces of hot dog into the KD in horror. “Are you really going to eat that?”

“Want some?”

“Kill me first. Some of us aren’t nineteen.”

Latts doesn’t even argue with him, just stirs the pot. Mike straightens up. 

“Hey. I sent you a birthday gift. I know how old you are.” Mike had actually sent him a game-worn Rangers jersey his mom had dug up for him, that he’d ostentatiously signed to his biggest fan with a heart. Latts hadn’t even texted him to give him shit about it.

“I have, like, a problem,” says Latts. There it is.

“Fuck,” says Mike.

“And the first place I wanted to be was here. I mean, not just that everyone keeps asking if I’m just going to be a career AHL’er. That’s a problem too. Because that’s not what I want, you know? You know how that feels. Not even getting picked up by an AHL team. But -- I have a . . . I have a problem. And I wanted _you_. So fucking stupid.” He stops stirring and just stares into the pot. “Tell me that it’s stupid that I want you to solve my problem, Richie.”

“Latts. Latts. Come on -- it’s -- whatever it is, you know I’m here for you. We’re -- you know.” Mike swallows. “Bros.”

“Right.” Latts turns off the stove and turns around to face Mike. “I think I’m pregnant?”

Mike reaches out for Latts and grabs him by the back of the neck and pulls him into a hug. Oh, god, this kid. This is the kid that Mike really . . . loves? This kid? Jesus.

Latts puts his arms around Mike and holds on tight. 

“Okay, Mikey, listen,” says Mike. “Whatever is happening in your body, it’s not a baby. Dudes cannot get pregnant. I promise you, whatever Wilson told you is a lie.”

Latts digs his face into Mike’s neck and mumbles something.

“What?”

“I said, I’m not that dumb.” Latts pulls away and gives him a disgusted look. “Look --” He digs his phone out of his pocket and swipes a couple of times. They clearly need to have another conversation about phone security and passcodes. He shows Mike a text. It’s a picture of a positive pregnancy test and the words ITS URS.

“Have you called your agent?”

“Richie, my agent doesn’t want anything to do with me.”

“Okay. We’ll call my agent. Is there any chance this is real?” Mike pulls his phone from his pocket.

“I mean --” Latts sighs. “I have -- you know --”

“I know,” says Mike drily.

“-- with two girls in the last _six months_ and one of them was in April.”

April -- the end of the IceHogs season, Mike figures easily. 

“Only two girls?”

“You ever not want stuff unless you can have exactly what you want?” Latts knocks his head into Richie’s collarbone. “I mean, whatever.”

“Sure.” Mike squeezes the back of his neck. “Read me off her phone number.” He types it in carefully and explains to his agent that they need a paternity test for the girl at the other end of the number for Latts.

He gets a text back immediately asking why Mike’s involved. 

_Why do u think?_ he types.

 _DONT DO THIS TO ME RICHIE_ comes the reply, but that’s the reply he always gets. 

_Let me know where I should take Latts for his half of the test_ , Mike texts back, and slides his phone back into his pocket without checking his other texts or his Insta DMs.

“All taken care of,” he tells Latts. “You wanna leave that orange shit and sit down, and I’ll make some fish?”

“You think fish fixes everything,” says Latts, but he sits at the breakfast bar. 

“I think a paternity test is gonna fix a lot,” says Mike as he opens the freezer, “and I think you’re old enough maybe I don’t need to give you a talk about gloving up.”

“I did.” He hunches over. “It wasn’t even good. It didn’t help.”

“Mmm. Vegetables will help.” Mike looks down at the orange goop in the pot and decides to scrape it out later, when maybe it will come out as a whole blob.

Latts slides off the stool and lies on the floor with Arnold. Mike wants to hold him and kiss his temple and tell him that yes, yes, Mike is going to fix this for him, yes, it’s going to be fine, yes, everything will be okay, yes, he promises -- Mike focuses on the fish and the subpar vegetables from the freezer.

*

Mike doesn’t know how to invite Latts to keep sleeping in his bed, but it turns out he doesn’t have to, because Latts climbs in and says plaintively, “Richie, _I can’t_ ,” and then curls up under the duvet even though it’s pretty warm in the house. Mike puts a hand on his ribs and keeps reading on his iPad about where he should go golfing next time. He’s thinking about spending the winter traveling around and golfing, instead of here ice fishing. Maybe rent a house in some warm place in the US and golf there with Arnold. Tan. Not worry about hockey.

Latts’ ribs move up and down evenly. Mike rubs his skin with his thumb. Latts turns over and curls his head into Mike’s side, curls his body around Mike’s. The sheet separates them, but Latts still feels warm against Mike. 

Mike moves his hand to Latts’ back and rubs in circles and forces himself to keep reading, to stay awake until Latts is asleep. 

*

All Latts has to do is rub the inside of his cheek with a swab and put it in a pre-labeled package. After they mail it, Mike takes Latts out on the boat, and they don’t fish, just drive fast through the lake, around in circles, so Latts can feel the breeze and the spray on his face.

*

Mike isn’t expecting any free agency calls, and doesn’t get any. He wants to be surprised that Latts doesn’t get any either, but he’s not. He wants to take responsibility for it -- what’s the kid expecting, hanging out with guys like Mike? -- but he doesn’t think it’s his fault either. Latts spent a long time in the AHL being an enforcer, and his numbers just keep going down. He’s not what people want. Mike knows all about not being what people want, and having to learn to live with it.

Latts doesn’t seem to want to talk about it, so Mike doesn’t bring it up. They talked about it enough after the 2016 playoffs. There’s not really much more to say, is there?

They fish quietly.

*

 _It’s his_ , says the text. _Does he want it or abortion? You want it, you pay._

 _Jesus_ , Mike writes back.

 _Not an option on the table_.

Mike clicks his screen off. Very funny. Latts is lying out in the sun with his shirt off and a ball cap backward on his head. Arnold is in the shade. The bed shouldn’t be tight with all three of them -- it’s big enough to fit, but Arnold and Latts both like to cuddle. Mike feels cramped every night with all the shit he doesn’t say, all the shit they’re not doing. This isn’t the longest Latts has ever stayed with him, but it’s the longest Latts has ever stayed without sucking him off.

They don’t even have beer or pot to smooth the way because Mike’s a little over a year sober, not counting days or anything, but paying attention, and Latts . . . also must be paying attention because he doesn’t buy shit and bring it back to the house.

Mike takes a deep breath and heads outside. 

“So . . . the kid is yours,” he says bluntly. “The question is if you want to keep it, or get rid of it.”

“Like . . . what does that mean?” Latts goes up on his elbows to squint at Mike.

“I guess the girl -- woman, uh -- says if you want the kid, she’ll have it if you pay the medical bills. But if you don’t want it, she’ll probably get an abortion. She doesn’t want to keep it.”

“Why would someone not want to keep a baby?” says Latts. “Jeez.”

“Uh,” says Mike. “I can think of a million reasons, don’t be an asshole.” His knees are killing him, so he sits instead of squatting, and Arnold comes right over, even though Mike is in the sun. “You hear anything about free agency?”

“No, shit.” Latts sits up and folds his legs. “I think this is as far as I’m ever gonna go. I mean, I think I’ve gone as far as I’m ever going. I can’t even get my agent to pick up the phone.”

“You wanna be a dad?”

“I don’t know what I’d _do_ with a kid.” He looks down. “I love babies. Love kids. But my own? I don’t know . . . like . . . money . . . and . . . I don’t know. A single dad?”

“Hey,” Mike says, swallowing back every word he wants to say. “Hey, you’re not alone.”

“I know, I know I have my family, but it’s not -- they’re not going to understand this.”

“No, I meant --” Mike puts his hand on Latts’ shoulder and squeezes. “You have me.”

Latts looks up at him, eyebrows up, eyes big. “You want to be a dad.”

“I’m not playing hockey either, man. We can do this together. I have your back.”

“That’s so . . .” Mike holds his breath. “. . . so cool of you.”

Mike exhales.

*

 _Pay for everything from my account,_ he texts. _Latta’s with me in Kenora if you need him_.

 _Of course he is_ , comes the response. _Don’t do anything stupid, Richie_.

Too fucking late, thinks Mike, watching Latts take his shirt off for bed. They cuddle close with their matching iPads, Mike watching golf clips on YouTube; Latts watches hockeyfights.com and leaves Instagram comments for his friends.

Too late.

*

Mike starts taking Latts places. Like his parents’ house for Sunday supper. They wear collared shirts and Mike irons their shorts. They bring fresh fish. Latts holds Mike’s hand as they walk up the porch. 

This is really the only place Mike takes Latts that “counts”; it just sounds better in Mike’s head to say he starts taking Latts “places”. 

Mike opens his mouth to say, “We’re having a baby,” and what comes out is, “Can I have another cup of coffee?”

Latts grins at him and squeezes his hand. “Gonna have creamer in it this time? Live wild, Richie.”

Mike’s mother pours in a generous splosh of creamer and looks thrilled. “Michael, you’re such a good influence on him, he never has second helpings of dessert.”

Now Latts looks thrilled. 

Mike’s coffee is too sweet and it tastes like a cinnamon bun instead of coffee, but he drinks it anyway, and Latts holds his hand the whole time. 

They start doing this every Sunday night, but the time is never right to tell them about the baby.

*

Mike looks up what the baby is doing. At 13 weeks old, in the middle of July, the baby has fingerprints and is three inches long. The website says he and Latts should be talking about parenting and how to parent rules and morals. He wonders what Latts would say if he suggested encouraging the kid to do something besides play hockey professionally. He wonders what _Canada_ would say.

The website lets you click forward to see all the future weeks of pregnancy, so Mike does, hoping one of the weeks has a directive: Here’s the week you tell your parents that your live-in younger boy-person-thing you have an incredibly undefined relationship with is having a baby with a woman who lives in Rockford, Illinois, and you are coordinating it through your agent, and you’re probably going to be listed on some paperwork as Dad #2 because you said something you consider only half stupid. 

None of the weeks even list when it’s a good time to define your relationship to the baby’s parent, or say I love you, although week 16 suggests a “babymoon” to reconnect, so maybe in three weeks, Mike will tell his parents about what the hell is going on and also blow Latts on the couch while they’re watching golf.

It’s not the _worst_ plan Mike has ever come up with.

*

“Hey, Richie?” says Latts drowsily. They’re in bed with the lights out; Mike thought Latts was asleep already, actually. Arnold is already on his bed on the floor; Mike is half there.

“Yeah?” It’s gonna rain; Mike can hear it in his voice and feel it in his fucking sinuses. His GP wants him to get some kind of sinus surgery, but how many times does a guy’s nose need to be broken?

“Can I . . . just, like . . .” Latts puts his hand on Mike’s chest.

“Yeah, Mikey, you can do anything,” says Mike, and then Latts is leaning over him and they’re _kissing_ , which Mike did not expect but definitely isn’t going to turn down. Latts is big, which Mike likes, and pushing him down into the pillows, and holding him down.

Latts pulls back. “This is okay?” he asks, and Mike nods, straining to get back to him, wrapping his legs around Latts to pull him in closer. 

They kiss roughly and frantically, but they’re in the wrong position for Mike to really be held down, for them to grind against each other, for anything to _happen_.

“Get on my dick, Latts,” Mike finally growls.

“What if I want to go slow?” asks Latts, and then giggles into Mike’s mouth. Mike rolls them over to Latts’ side of the bed -- fewer pillows, but the duvet, shit, fuck, whatever, now he’s on top and he gets right onto Latts’ dick, but both of them are in cut-off sweatpants that are in the way; Mike reaches down and pulls his dick out and goes for Latts’ dick, but Latts is already there, they’re on the same page: dicks. When they rub together, it’s so good; Latts gets so wet, and he’s not cut so it’s everywhere, dripping everywhere, and Mike rubs his foreskin up and away and then back down, catching Latts’ precome with it, watching their cocks come together. Latts’ cock is so blunt and fat and Mike wants it in his mouth but also wants to rub against it until he comes.

He looks up at Latts, but Latts is the same as him, staring at their cocks rubbing together, at their stupid hairy balls hanging out, at how wet they are without any lube slicking them up, just sticky precome and Mike’s big hand pulling them together. 

“Watch this,” mutters Mike, and tugs his foreskin until it hurts a little, but it has give, it comes a little away, and he pulls it over the head of Latts’ cock. Latts gasps and his hips thrust, the slick head of his cock fucking against Mike’s, sliding over it hard, staying in Mike’s grip. “That’s right,” Mike coaches, “fuck into me,” and Latts comes all over Mike’s dick and his hand, groaning long and low, dropping his head back.

Mike lets go, then uses the handful of Latts’ come to strip his dick, looking at Latts sprawled on his bed, flushed and thick everywhere and perfect. He comes all over Latts’ dick, hanging over the band of his sweatpants, aims for it, and Latts grunts out a laugh.

“Nice,” he says, rubbing his fingers through it and shivering when he touches the head of his cock.

“I like having the best porn to look at while I jerk off,” says Mike. He runs two fingers up Latts’ cock, massages the soft head just to watch him squirm and shiver. “Next time maybe we can do it with the lights on.”

“I keep thinking about sucking your cock out on the boat.”

“Nothing’s ever stopped you before.”

“We weren’t having a baby before.”

Mike takes off his sweats and uses them to mop up, then carefully cleans up Latts. “Does that change a lot for you?”

“Doesn’t it change everything?” His eyes shine in the darkness.

“Do you want to talk about this when we’re not both half asleep?” Mike strips him of his sweats, too, and throws both pairs on the floor, then manhandles him into being the little spoon.

“I keep trying, but I never get there.”

“I’ll put it on my schedule.” Mike yawns, and reaches down to arrange his dick into a better position. “I already have something scheduled for week 16 but we can fit in a big relationship talk for week 15.”

“What week is it now?” asks Latts, but Mike’s already too far asleep.

*

Mike leaves Latts napping with Arnold and goes to his parents’ house in the middle of the day. This is between him and them; no point in putting Latts in the middle, or making a Sunday dinner awkward. 

The paperwork came from the lawyers this morning finalizing everything. They explained over the phone that it was almost like surrogacy paperwork -- there’s stuff in there that even covers what Tracey can eat and things she can do while pregnant, while Mike’s money is supporting her and covering her medical bills. Then, at the end, she hands over the baby and signs a quit claim, Mike signs the adoption papers, and Mike and Latts are the baby’s dads.

Mike isn’t sure where they got the idea that Mike is Dad #2, but since he’s been thinking of himself that way anyway, and Latts has been thinking of him that way, and it’s obvious that he’s Dad #2, he didn’t correct them. He’s Dad #2.

He’s a dad.

He needs to talk to his parents. 

This might soften the whole “being gay” thing. Not that they seem to have a problem with Latts at all. They seem to really like him. A lot. More than Mike would have ever suspected. But . . . nobody wants their kid to be gay. Mike’s not stupid.

When he gets there, his dad is on the porch.

“Hey,” says Mike. “Is Mom around?”

“She thinks it’s too hot to be outside,” says his dad. “Imagine!”

“It’s kind of sunny, eh?”

“But not too hot!”

“Can we go in, though? I wanted to talk to you.” Mike sticks his hands in his pockets. “Both of you.”

His dad eyes him. “We already know about Michael, you know.”

“I know.”

“Just making sure.” His dad heaves up out of the chair. “You’re not much for keeping secrets.”

“I wasn’t trying to keep him a secret. He was up here last year, too, remember?”

“Didn’t bring him to dinner with your parents last year.”

“Well . . . no . . .” Mike follows him into the house. “But we weren’t serious last year.”

“How’s that for hockey?” His dad doesn’t look at him when he asks it.

“Neither of us are playing this year. Or planning to play again.” Mike sits in one of the arm chairs in the living room. “Is Mom in the kitchen?”

“Still things you can do if you wanted. Coach. Coach midget, or --”

“I’m not going to be doing that. That’s . . . sort of . . . like . . . what we need to talk about.”

“I’ll get your mother, then.” His dad still doesn’t look at him, just trundles out of the room. 

Yeah, no one wants a gay kid. Mike puts his face in his hands. This is already not going well.

*

When Latts stands up and stretches and says, “Are you coming to shower?” Mike shakes his head.

“Don’t bother,” he says. “No more Sunday dinners for a while.”

Latts tenses. “Does this have to do with the relationship talk we haven’t had yet?”

“My parents are really . . .” Mike stops. Puts his iPad down. Shakes his head again. “I don’t know, Latts. I couldn’t tell. Disappointed? Angry? Confused? Definitely they don’t want to see me. They think I’m not ready to be a parent, that you and I are being selfish, that we somehow talked Tracey out of her baby with slick lawyers and a lot of money -- you name it. They _really_ think I’m not ready to be a parent. They are _so_ horrified.”

“They’re _horrified_?” Latts’ voice shakes.

“Or maybe they’re just grossed out that I’m doing it with a guy, I can’t fucking tell.” Mike kicks the coffee table with the ball of his foot.

“When did this happen?”

“A few days ago. I didn’t . . .” Mike swallows hard. Latts comes over to where he’s sitting and crawls into his lap, arms around him. Latts is big and heavy and knows he likes to be held down, and this is nice. Mike needs to _keep it_. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you right away, I didn’t know how to say it.”

Latts scratches his fingers through Mike’s hair. “I’m really sorry about your parents, Richie.”

“You want to know something, Latts?”

“Yeah, I want to know everything.”

“I didn’t even think for one second about giving up you and the baby. They made me so fucking angry I almost drove my truck into a tree because they want me to give up my family, but you’re _my family_ , and shouldn’t they understand that? And we haven’t even met the little puck yet and I already feel --” Mike tilts his head back to look up at Latts. “I’m Dad #2. I signed all the paperwork. We just have to date it when the baby’s born. And my parents want me to give that up, and they’re worried about _Hockey Canada_.”

“You’re not worried about Hockey Canada?” asks Latts cautiously.

“What are they going to do, fire me again? Arrest me again?” asks Mike caustically. “Not let me play? Not let anyone hire me? Not ask me to come to international tournaments?”

“Oh, Richie.” Latts bumps their foreheads together. 

“My parents don’t _get it_ , that I’m on the outside, they really believe something amazing’s going to happen and hockey will take me back somehow. They don’t realize I’m already almost too old, and definitely too blacklisted, and really --” Mike laughs. “Really too gay, at this point.”

“Do you want me to go?” asks Latts quietly. “I can take the baby to my dad, I guess, when it’s born, and . . . figure something out. Hire a nanny --”

“We haven’t even had our big relationship conversation yet, Latts, and you wanna leave?”

“I think ‘you’re my family’ covers most of it?” Latts quirks his lips into a little smile.

Mike sighs. “You’re so young. Don’t you wanna hear me say that I love you?”

“Don’t we have the rest of our lives for that? I don’t want to rush you.” Latts tugs on his hair.

“Why are you like this, Latts?”

“Like what? Perfect for you?”

“I was going to say too fucking easy, but we can go with perfect, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Kat and Amanda for cheerleading <3 There should be so much more Richie/Latts in this world, y’all, I cannot even imagine why there is not. PS, written before we found out our darling boy is going to Arizona :) (I am sure Richie is going to golf. Ice fish using chainsaws! Or keep trying to go to Europe, sigh.)


End file.
